


street art

by serenfire



Category: The Get Down (TV)
Genre: Character Study, Coda, M/M, that night in soho
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-11
Updated: 2016-09-11
Packaged: 2018-08-14 06:35:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,641
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8002132
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/serenfire/pseuds/serenfire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A god meets a prophet, and the subways of New York are never the same again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	street art

**Author's Note:**

> a fic about music, and art, and finding yourself, and Manhattan alleyways. enjoy!

A god meets a prophet, and the subways of New York are never the same again. They meet with equal parts hesitation and awe, their faces complete mirrors of each other as they reveal their secret identities, as they parse out their most secret parts. 

Dizzee draws his denim jacket around him like a shield, and blushes at the praise showered upon him. Thor doesn’t look bothered by Dizzee’s own praise -- he smiles, hair fluttering against his cheek like an actual angel -- and looks at Dizzee like no one has ever done before, like maybe he is the answer to something Thor has been searching for. Maybe Dizzee means something to this man, this legend. 

Riding the trains past dusk is surreal, being surrounded by all this art that none of the passengers appreciates, that no one even notices. They are the only ones in this compartment, and they sit closer to each other than would be acceptable in the light. Dizzee can feel the heat radiating off Thor’s shoulders, can almost feel their hair touching, static passing between them as they exchange books. 

The look of awe never leaves Thor’s eyes. His eyes, open and trusting and so excited about art, dry the back of Dizzee’s throat and when he looks at Thor, he sees -- perfection. 

Dizzee stays up past sunrise in his own room, looking at the pages of Thor’s book, thinking about the idea gestated between the two of them: to create their best, messiest work of art within it. Dizzee falls asleep after the sun comes up, the book tucked underneath his pillow, happier than he can remember being. 

Zeke spends all his time either talking about Mylene, chasing after with Mylene, or telling everyone within earshot about how he’s going to be with Mylene and also get out of the Bronx himself. Dizzee likes listening to Zeke; it’s soothing in a way that can’t be reproduced by Shao scratching records in a mesmerizing loop, searching for the perfect beat. Hearing Zeke so free with his feelings, sharing from an internal need to talk, to create sentences, to be the emcee he’s always dreamed of, brings a smile to Dizzee’s face. 

Dizzee comments occasionally and fills in the implications to the picture Zeke’s painting -- his feelings relate to the churn of the universe, and the music he searches for will fulfill the fundamental longing in his heart for relationship. Zeke nods in agreement with his assessment to the beat of Shaolin’s turntables. 

When Dizzee meets with Thor again, he’s been waiting the entire weekend for the meeting. Something bubbles in his gut, something new and dangerous and made of a feeling that could propel him farther than he’s ever gone before, until the second he sees Thor’s face and the boy is wearing the same expression he was last time -- utter happiness, all for Dizzee. 

The bubbles in his gut twist and bloom feelings of relief, of hope and of something more, planting flowers in his lower intestines that spread light and heat to his neck. Thor laughs, and words roll off his tongue about art with such a passion that Dizzee’s head spins. Even Shaolin Fantastic, the most prolific of the artists in the Bronx, has never cared about the implications and the intricacies as Thor does. Dizzee wants to follow him, to listen to him, and to impress Thor with his own knowledge, to be able to give as good as he gets. 

Then Thor takes him to the brightest, liveliest club in SoHo and all the Boroughs combined, and while inadvertently securing Mylene’s fame by slipping her record to Carlos, time slows down and Thor kisses him. And Dizzee kisses back. He doesn’t care about the throbbing masses jostling them, swaying to the beat of the best disco song ever made, giving them space to explore -- this. 

Dizzee is completely sober, and so, he assumes, is Thor. He can’t taste any liquor on the other boy’s breath, and he does explore every inch of the mouth Thor has to give him, reaching out to curl his shaky fingers around Thor’s lapels and breathe into their shared space. Thor’s eyes reflect his, and Dizzee smiles after they separate. 

Thor is still smiling. He cups Dizzee’s face and puts his own hands around Dizzee’s, leaning in again for another taste. Thor’s friend is gone, presumably for better entertainment than two artists drunk on nothing but life and becoming together more than they could ever be separate. 

After they pull apart for air again, Thor drags him out of the club, and to the only unpainted alley wall in all of Manhattan, handing him a spray can, unspoken words passing between them in Thor’s unassuming glance. Thor is offering him a way out, a way to just be Rumi while he just is Thor, and they don’t have to be anything more to each other than heroes and role models. 

But Dizzee -- Dizzee wants. He won’t take Thor’s easy out because Thor is worth more than all the top hats on aliens in the Boroughs. Dizzee interrupts Thor drawing broad stripes on the wall, laying out a spectacular picture, by placing a hand on his shoulder and waiting until Thor finishes the line to look him in the eyes. 

“I liked it,” Dizzee says. 

Thor places his own hand against Dizzee’s denim jacket, and looks behind his shoulder, his cheeks tinged with red. “I’m glad,” he says. “I’m -- I’m glad.” 

“Want to do it again?” Dizzee whispers, so close to Thor that his breath ghosts the boy’s ear. Thor grins back at him, and it’s different this time--they’re not within the safety of a club that caters to their clientele, they’re not within any walls at all, exposed to whoever walks in Manhattan at night. Dizzee leans against the wall wet with his doodles, staining his jacket yellows and purples that he could care less about, and drags Thor slowly back against his mouth. Thor slides his hands around Dizzee’s waist, his touch electricity to Dizzee’s bones, and meets their lips together, eyes open and drinking the sight of Dizzee in. 

Dizzee is wrecked, deepening the angle and drinking in more taste, more touch. He can’t get enough. Thor follows him, working to press Dizzee against the wall with his body, brushing a hand through his fro and settling on the small of his back, sweet, unrelenting. 

His mind goes faster than the scene he’s in. He looks at the stars above and says with his eyes more than his mouth that they are in perfect alignment for the kiss, because these stars are the second-most beautiful thing Dizzee’s ever seen. Second only to Thor. 

They separate, breathing hitched, and Dizzee rolls his tongue over his own lips, looking at the redness of Thor’s own, bitten and licked and oh-so-magnetic. He grins, breathless, and doesn’t know what to do from here. Art is easy; art is mapping out the strokes that appear in his head; art is creating something from within Dizzee to show to the world. This art form that he’s making with Thor only half belongs to Dizzee. The other half is not under his control. 

Thor whispers in his ear, “Would you mind if I blow you?” and Dizzee sucks in a breath, expanding, magnetic. 

“Yes.” 

Dizzee’s chipped nails scrape against the brick wall as Thor shuffles down on his knees. He looks at Thor’s face from a different angle as his jeans are unzipped, as Thor winks at Dizzee with as much want and longing expressed in a single glance, and Dizzee looks at the entrance to the alley as he starts, breathing faster and hoping to high heaven no one passes and decides to investigate the muted noises in the alley. 

His foot kicks a spray can, and Dizzee smacks his head on the brick wall trying to quiet himself, even as Thor twists and does something spectacular with his mouth and Dizzee wants nothing more than to cry out, than to show the world how amazing Thor is, and how good he feels. He feels like he has become the stars, like he’s flying in a world of careless abandon, like all the gods have decided that he and Rumi deserve this. 

Dizzee clutches to the rough brick, to the smoothness of Thor’s hair, until it’s finished, and he sucks air into his lungs in harsh rasps as Thor stands up. His lips are even slicker with the remnants of Dizzee on them, and his grin is wider. 

Thor initiates this kiss, running his hands up and down Dizzee’s jacket, dragging him in for a kiss that tastes like he does. Dizzee is lost in the feeling, in the intoxication of his neurochemicals that tell him this is the most important thing ever to happen to him. This is an event that should be remembered. 

And oh, does Dizzee remember. He kisses back Thor with all the passion and energy within him, the artists colliding as one, looking no further than this moment to infuse with their art and care. 

When it’s over, Thor gathers the cans and puts them back in his trash bag, slinging it over his shoulder and throwing his other arm around Dizzee, pulling him close. “If we’re quick, we can catch the last train back to the Bronx,” he says. 

“And if we linger, we can walk through the tunnels again,” Dizzee says with a sly grin. 

Thor laughs, burying his face into Dizzee’s ear, running his teeth over it as he chuckles. In the dark, they walk across Lower Manhattan, one of many moving figures in this hour of the night. In the dark, Dizzee can hold onto Thor with all of his buoyant strength. 

“That we can,” Thor agrees. “That we definitely can.” 

  


**Author's Note:**

> my [tumblr](http://www.trans-reyskywalker.tumblr.com)


End file.
